Night Falls
by the ticking clock
Summary: His thoughts were burning fires and drifting snowfields. One-shot. Spoilers for "A Dance with Dragons."


His thoughts were burning fires and drifting snowfields.

He lay, curled in on himself in the snow, the fourth knife still lodged within his body, icy-cold, slipping and sliding with blood as his fingers caressed the hilt. He did not have the strength to pull it out.

He was so, _so _cold.

He thought of Ghost, of the direwolf's loyalty, of his silence, companionship, the feeling of his fur against Jon's icy hands, his silent snarls, the soft pad of his paws against ice, the brush of his shoulder against Jon's hip. The blood against his muzzle after a hunt, blazing the same red as his eyes...

_Ghost was different. Ghost was a part of him. _

"Ghost," he whispered, lips forming the words, soft and pleading. "Ghost."

But Ghost was gone.

The icy cold was spreading, licking across his chest, down his arms, his hands, his neck, his head, tingling at his lips. He couldn't _breathe-_

When they had been young, Jon and Robb had had fights in the snow(the summer snow, light and gentle, not the howl of winter) and they would run and run, tackle each other and laugh until they couldn't breathe. Once, Robb had knocked him down, left him sprawling against the cold ground. He hadn't been able to breathe then, either.

But Robb had grinned at him, reached out and helped him up. "Come on, Jon," he had said, playful, teasing. "Before I stick you with my sword."

Jon had tackled him, and they had rolled through the snow together, the icy wetness biting tender caresses down the back of their necks, the snowflakes melting in their hair.

This was just like that. Robb would come. Robb would help him up and pull the knife from him, and rub hand fulls of snow in his hair, and-

_No. _

He could no longer see. It hurt too much to open his eyes. That was wrong, somehow, he knew. His eyes should not ache. The knife was somewhere by his naval, nowhere near his face, but-

The air that came in sharp gasps from his lips was freezing with each exhale, and it burned under his nose. Ice coated his cheeks with sharp, tender droplets, until he was numb. Numb and cold.

So cold.

Bran had dreamed of snow. He had told Jon once that he wanted to climb a tree in the winter, "then the ice is slick to the branches and it gleams in the sun like gems," he had said with all the beautiful innocence of a child, and Jon had laughed.

But Bran was dead. So was Rickon, with his sweet, breathless laughter and teasing smile.

The snow around him was warm with his own blood. His cheek was pressed against the crust of it, and it burned against his frozen skin. He wanted to move, but he couldn't feel his body properly. Couldn't make his muscles flex and move the way he wanted. Couldn't lift even a finger to pull the knife out, much less roll over.

The fighting was still going on, he could hear the screams even in his weakened state. He closed his eyes.

_Night falls, and now my war begins. _

It had ended fairly quickly.

He thought of Arya, with her hair in tangles, her eyes bright and big and dancing, her arms holding him tightly, the warmth of her cheek pressed to his.

_Stick them with the pointy end. _

The knife burned with a new ice, the sharpness of winter bathed in flame, and Jon gasped...he couldn't _breathe..._

Darkness danced along the edges of his vision, and suddenly he was afraid. Terrified that if he closed his eyes he wouldn't wake up. He would die here, surrounded in a pool of his own blood, without his direwolf, his brother's...alone.

He should have listened to the priestess. Should have heeded Ghost's silent snarls and warnings.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow. _

Ygritte had whispered those words to him hundreds of times, and they were true. He knew nothing. He was just a boy, a boy trying to lead a group of seasoned men. A boy still kissed with the green of summer, rash and dangerous and beaten by the world. A boy who had traveled far and seen much, but a boy still.

_Kill the boy and let the man be born. _

The cold had spread, and now there was warmth. Gentle, almost soothing, it beckoned to him, whispering in soft words, gentle rasps of a wolf's breath. _Dance with us, Jon Snow. Come. _

His thoughts were burning fires and drifting snowfields-the pull of the summons, the icy reality of the knife, the sweet memories of childhood in Winterfell, the sound of the battle taking place at his doorsteps, the gentle hum of a song that came somewhere deep and long-forgotten in his mind...

_Come with us. _

Jon's lips moved, but no sound came out, only a broken, wordless plead: _Please, just let it end, it's cold, and-_

He thought he heard Ygritte laughing.

_Slowly, _he whispered to himself. _Slowly. _

His fingers clawed weakly at the bloodstained snow, fought to free the knife, but he couldn't breathe, and he felt the knife sink deeper, and-

_Ghost, Ghost, Ghost..._

Jon Snow closed his eyes.

He did not hear the sharp, sudden sound of the direwolf's felt only the fire-kissed cold, and the sharp salt of the tears as they burned behind his eyes.

_Night falls, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. _

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

Ghost was still howling-his first howl, his first sound-and the desperation and pain tore through Jon's heart. He focused on the call of his direwolf, listened to it.

_Ghost. _

He listened to the screams of men, wildlings and brothers, the burn and crackle of the flames. He listened to his own fading breaths while his thoughts fled to safe place.

A place of warmth and comfort and family. A place free of burdens and responsibilities, a place of wolves and feasting and swordplay in the yard. It wasn't Winterfell. Winterfell was not home.

Perhaps there was nowhere but his own thoughts where he could be home.

Jon Snow clenched his eyes shut, and breathed out to the sound of his direwolf's howls while his blood froze into brilliant red ice.


End file.
